Half an hour later, the local sheriff and several backup patrol cars from Orange County arrived one after another. On the dark plaza, the flashing lights of several cruisers lit up the scene in stark pulses.
The row of vehicles sitting on the open lot was especially eye-catching. The local sheriff, holding a flashlight in one hand and a pistol in the other, stepped down from his car and circled around the empty vehicles. The beam of his flashlight finally stopped on a New Orleans license plate. Exchanging glances with several other officers, the group moved toward the repair shop entrance, covering each other as they advanced.
"Oh shit, what the hell happened here?"
One officer spotted the bearded man's body at first glance. His entire face was so mutilated that it was unrecognizable. Bodies were strewn all over the ground beside him.
"Ugh, look over here—this guy's head is gone!"
Another officer cried out in alarm.
The thick stench of blood made everyone's heads ache. York, the town's only sheriff, furrowed his brow and forced himself to suppress his discomfort, more convinced than ever that he'd made the right call.
Half an hour earlier, he had received calls from townspeople reporting intense gunfire coming from the direction of the repair shop. York had actually heard it himself—it was distant, but in the silence of the night, those bursts were sharp and unmistakable.
The sheer intensity of the gunfire made his heart race. After much consideration, York decided to call for backup before heading over. Now, he was incredibly grateful for that decision. If he'd rushed in recklessly, there might've been another body lying on the ground.
"What do we do?"
"Wait."
York responded to a question from one of the Orange County deputies. Just before he arrived, he had received a call from the Louisiana DEA. They requested the officers immediately secure the crime scene and take control of the situation.
The DEA had no authority to command a county sheriff's office, but in situations like this, local police usually cooperated. They weren't equipped to handle something this big, and besides, no one knew when they might need each other down the line. Mutual respect was a must.
…
Meanwhile, two motorcycles sped along a rural highway leading toward New Orleans. The Rogues had dared to target Amanda—Owen would make them disappear from the face of the earth. When the sun rose tomorrow, there would be no more Rogues in New Orleans.
Brock, on the other motorcycle, had a different perspective. He'd been a DEA agent for years and knew how hard it was to completely destroy a group like the Rogues. Even last time, when he went undercover and collected rock-solid evidence, all they managed was to put their then-leader, Danny Tully, in prison. The organization itself had survived.
Judicial means alone couldn't wipe these groups out. Brock had had enough of a life on the run. Mandy was only in third grade but had already moved six times with him. On average, they relocated every six months. He didn't want her childhood to be like that.
Owen's sudden appearance was a turning point. Brock still didn't know who he really was, but it was clear he was strong. The bodies back there were proof enough. Brock believed Owen wouldn't dare storm the Rogues' headquarters unless he had something to rely on. This might be his only chance in life to end it all.
In the darkness, the two motorcycles roared forward. In the saddlebag on the back of Owen's bike was the Remington M870 and a stash of ammo they'd recovered earlier. The shotgun felt exceptionally comfortable in his hands, and he'd decided it would be his main weapon for tonight.
…
At the Rogues' headquarters, a brightly lit villa, the current leader of the Rogues, Channing Musk, felt a bit uneasy. Two hours earlier, his lieutenant had reported they had arrived in the small town of Revel in Orange County. He'd taken eighteen men. By all accounts, capturing one person should've been easy. But in the two hours since, Channing hadn't received a single update.
Both he and his lieutenant had once been small-time players in the Rogues—not even close to Danny Tully's inner circle. That traitor Dalton, however, had been Danny's most trusted confidant. Danny had followed his every word. Who would've guessed Dalton was a cop undercover? Danny paid dearly for that trust—his son was killed, and he himself was convicted and sent to prison. But ironically, if that hadn't happened, Channing never would've been promoted to leader, even if the title was only nominal.
It was past midnight. Feeling drowsy, Channing decided to rest. He ordered his men to wake him the moment his lieutenant returned, then walked into his luxurious bedroom.
…
A few hours later
Outside the villa, about 200 meters away, Owen and Brock parked their motorcycles. Brock pointed at the brightly lit mansion ahead. "That's it—that's the Rogues' headquarters."
Owen glanced over. The place was lit up like a stadium. Even from a distance, they could see men in leather jackets posted all around. It was already four in the morning, and none of them looked the least bit sleepy.
They switched off their headlights and quietly approached on foot, weapons at the ready.
At the back entrance, a guy with a nose ring was chatting with a burly man across from him. "Herbie, you wouldn't believe how wild that chick was. She was crying, begging me to let her go…"
Suddenly, the voice stopped mid-sentence. The big guy heard a soft slicing sound—flesh being pierced. He barely had time to react before he felt a tightness in his throat, struggling to breathe. Then, it felt like his neck had been snapped.
Dragging both bodies into the nearby bushes, Owen wiped off his claw blade and raised the M870 again, silently ascending the stairs. He gently pushed open the door—no one inside. The two slipped in, and the door quietly shut behind them.
"Which room exactly?"
"Third floor, maybe fourth. I haven't been here in years…"
Owen nodded. That would have to do. They moved quietly through the halls, and Owen was glad these gangsters weren't stupid enough to install cameras in their own hideout.
Ahead seemed to be a lounge. Owen could hear voices and the sound of a TV—it sounded like someone was watching a game. He and Brock crept closer, covering each other with practiced coordination.
Through a crack in the door, they saw a couch facing away from the entrance. On the TV in front, an NBA game was playing. Owen and Brock exchanged glances. Brock nodded. They both switched their guns out for knives.
The door creaked as Owen slowly pushed it open. He winced, expecting to be discovered. But the man on the couch just raised a hand and spoke without looking back, "Eisen, you always pick the best times for a bathroom break. You see what the Rockets just pulled off? They're ahead now. Looks like you just lost our bet…"
Still not turning around, he kept watching the game enthusiastically. A few seconds passed, and when he got no response, he finally turned his head curiously—only halfway. That was as far as he got before a dagger plunged into his neck. At the same time, his buddy beside him had his throat slit, blood spraying like a fountain.
Owen gave Brock a disapproving look—disgusted, even. So messy. Totally unprofessional. Throat-slitting in an assassination? How are they supposed to clean up the bodies afterward? Brock just shrugged helplessly—he used to be a cop, not a hitman. It hadn't really crossed his mind.
______
(≧◡≦) ♡ Support me and read 20 chapters ahead – patreon.com/Mutter
For every 50 Power Stones, one extra chapter will be released on Saturday.